


Commit This To Memory

by tigers_bedtime



Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigers_bedtime/pseuds/tigers_bedtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irwin constantly had the vague, uneasy feeling that he was being tested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commit This To Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Backdated work [2008]

Irwin sat cross-legged in the grass, a little apart from the circle of his students. It was nearly midway through term, and he felt satisfied that the boys were at last beginning to show signs of progress.

Today he led a discussion outdoors on the Spanish Civil War and its aftereffects, which he thought went particularly well. One of the boys, Lockwood, quoted Orwell's _Homage to Catalonia_. Not only was it an apt reference, but it also proved at least one of them capable of memorizing works of nonfiction, for a change. Irwin was especially pleased when Timms made something of an argument in favor of Franco's military tactics, even if it was rather ineloquent. Still, Irwin considered it an overall improvement.

Only once did the class become unruly, but he was learning to take their certain outbursts in stride. In the middle of delivering what he thought was an excellent point about anarchist strategy, he was interrupted by Crowther, who saw fit to abruptly stand up and say, "Oi, I'll be Stalin. Who wants Franco?"

And that's how Irwin found himself witnessing an impromptu performance of "Tea Time with Tyrants." Bemused, Irwin leaned back and pressed his palms into the dry grass behind him. He watched as Stalin (Crowther), Franco (Dakin), Mussolini (Timms), and Hitler (Lockwood) quarreled for several minutes over who would be eating the last biscuit. There was also a last-minute cameo appearance made by Eva Perón (Posner). Trust this lot to come up with something equally convoluted and clever.

Clearly it was an improvised original. Or maybe they'd done it before; he never can tell. This sort of thing made Irwin feel ill at ease. When the boys synchronized in this way it was like a joke he wasn't privy to. He liked to pretend that he indulged them their interruptions and their playacting, but mostly he was terrified of becoming at all authoritarian (as if they would take him seriously for one second). It was an awkward position, being as young as he was. And after all, he was only a supply teacher.

The boys finished their performance and they soon ended their discussion. He assigned them an essay on the influence of war propaganda, which was received with several scowls and one smug look (from the illustrious Stuart Dakin).

They strolled as a group toward the school building. Irwin followed behind them all, and as he walked he overheard snatches of an argument among a few of his students.

"Shakespeare?" Dakin said with disgust, shaking his head. "Outstanding. Real original."

"Oh, come off. It's a community play."

"Well, why bother? It's been done, mate. In every fuckin' language, all over the fuckin' globe. What could you possibly add to a character that's been performed, let's say, a billion times over?" Irwin couldn't see his face, but he suspected that Dakin's handsome features were arranged in a self-satisfied smirk.

Posner, who was striding alongside Scripps ahead of the arguing pair, glanced over his shoulder and said, "That's a bit excessive."

Scripps turned so that he was walking backwards, hands in his coat pockets. "Leave it to Dakin to reveal Shakespeare as the stain upon English literature that he truly is."

Dakin sniffed, "No, that's not quite the metaphor. More like... a soggy, worn-out handkerchief in the breast pocket of Western culture."

"You're a dramatic tosser," Crowther said, to which Dakin replied by shrugging his shoulders.

They reached the front doors, and Irwin stood aside as they filed in; however, one student stayed behind.

"I need to speak with you, sir," Akthar said. "It'll only take a moment."

Irwin let the door close, and they remained standing outside the building. He squinted into the sun filtering through mid-afternoon clouds. "Yes?"

Akthar was undoubtedly the quietest of the lot, and embarrassingly, Irwin had barely ever noticed him at all. Irwin wasn't sure he'd conversed with him outside of the usual classroom dialogue, and it reminded him of something he'd promised himself at the start of term. When Irwin had accepted the position at Cutler's Grammar School, he'd outlined several personal objectives he'd wished to accomplish. Apart from the perfunctory planning and goal-setting that went into teaching preparation, Irwin had ambitioned to become familiar with all his students. That is, he'd wished to be able to distinguish them all, to pull any one of them out of his memory, even after years had passed. But like any decent historian, he had a mind for text – the dry scroll of names and dates impressed more firmly than any face ever could.

And so he'd already fallen short of his original intention, he realized, as he stood there trying to recollect anything about this student other than his name and his status as the class Muslim.

"Sir, I wanted to let you know that I'll be absent from Friday's class. It's, erm, a religious holiday."

Irwin puzzled over it for just a moment. Of course. If he recalled correctly since he'd looked at a calendar, it must be Eid al-Fitr.

"Ah, yes, yes. Eid Mubarak, then," Irwin offered.

"Er, yeah. My mum's a bit of a fanatic about it, and well, I've got the exemption slip from the headmaster." Akthar pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it in the air.

"That's fine." Irwin wanted to ask him what a month of solemn fasting was like, for he truly was

curious, but he didn't want to seem too prying. He'd never fasted for anything in his life, and the idea of Ramadan and the ensuing feast did fascinate him. Certainly he understood the historical context of it all, the when's, where's, and why's, but the experience itself was beyond him. He also wasn't sure how large a Muslim population there was in Sheffield, but it must be enough. Instead he said, "I expect your assignment to be handed in on time next Monday, along with those of your peers."

"'Course. I wouldn't dream of turning something in tardy, sir." He smirked and readjusted the strap of his bag.

Irwin smiled weakly. He opened the door and waved the boy through. "Quite right," he replied.

**

It was three weeks later. The weather had been miserable as of late. The clouds hung low and grey, clinging to where they did not belong, imposing their cold, unhappy moisture upon everything. Irwin had been in an unending state of clamminess.

This afternoon he was seated at his desk, head bent over a stack of papers with the pretense of working intently. He wiped his palms on his trousers and risked a quick survey of the classroom. Today's lesson was an utter failure. His pupils were quietly collaborating in two teams on a proposal for a revised outline of the Napoleonic Wars. This departure from the usual lecture/discussion format was a direct result of Irwin's wish to cease talking, and similarly to prevent being spoken to.

There were days Irwin genuinely believed he was a good teacher. Today was not one of those days.

He presumed this was how teaching must go. He simply wasn't adjusting to the unpredictability of the classroom or to the continuous struggle for dominance. Irwin constantly had the vague, uneasy feeling that he was being tested, and he kept reminding himself that they were, in fact, boys. The distinction in vocabulary was absolutely necessary to his well-being. Unfortunately, Irwin still felt a bit like a boy himself.

A wiser man would keep in mind that these young men cannot know everything. That was easier said than done, as most things are, especially after he'd spent the first half of today's session evading their unsubtle harping and insinuations. Days like this one required one of his well-used little mantras: You're a capable, intelligent human being, for fuck's sake. Repeat.

These problems were easy enough when compared to the most glaring and revolting of his inadequacies as a teacher, and that was the unfortunate attraction he felt for one of his students.

As if on cue, Dakin looked up from his work, caught Irwin's wandering eye, and winked. Irwin promptly lowered his head and pretended to scribble something on his paper. He was bloody pathetic.

Class continued in this manner for another twenty minutes. Finally he decided to let them go early, promising to review each team's proposal and to announce the winner the following week. Thus ended a spectacularly unproductive lesson in history.

This time making no attempt to hide his gaze, he remained at his desk and watched Dakin gather his things and clap Crowther on the back as they exited the classroom. Irwin sat there, agitated. He looked around and found, for the second time, the boy Akthar lingering after the others had departed.

"May I help you?" He tried, and failed, not to sound annoyed.

Akthar approached the front of the room. "I have a favor to ask of you, sir."

His eyes still on the door, Irwin replied, "Certainly."

"I've been working on my portfolio, and I was hoping to bring my camera to one of your lessons."

Irwin hadn't a clue to what he was referring. Distractedly, he answered, "...I'm sorry?"

"Photography, sir. I'd like a few more candids for my portfolio," explained Akthar. He added watchfully, "If that's all right with you, sir."

Irwin finally focused his attention to the inquiring boy, who was looking back at him with a queer expression. Irwin cleared his throat. "Photography? I see." He stood and began to gather the materials he'd spent the afternoon pretending to organize. "Will you be photographing your time with the other instructors as well?"

"I'd have liked, sir. Old Totty would have none of it." Akthar grinned.

"And Hector?"

"Oh, Hector's thrilled. I believe next class we're discussing Bill Brandt, and the like."

"Hmm. So why must you infringe upon my precious time if Hector's already granted his permission?" He gave a half-smile.

Akthar ventured a few steps closer, a short distance away from the desk. "Well, they're two completely different settings, sir."

Irwin paused his shuffling and looked up with an eyebrow raised. "I beg to differ."

"Certainly, sir, they're both classroom environments. But there's no comparing the Amazon and the Sahara, sir, other than I wouldn't care to spend an excessive amount of time in either place."

"Dare I ask which insufferable location my classroom supposedly resembles?"

"I wouldn't, sir."

Irwin chuckled. "It shall be quite a distraction for your peers." They were cheeky enough. Give them an audience and God knows what would happen. It was really best not to encourage that kind of behavior if he intended to accomplish anything.

"I don't think so, sir. They'll barely notice me. I've become very good at the inconspicuous photographer bit, you see." His soft, effeminate face broke into an assured smile.

"Hmm," Irwin said again, but he found himself returning the smile, and for a second Irwin forgot his irritation with himself. "Ah, very well."

"Thank you, sir."

It was at this moment Irwin thought what an idealistic and impossible thing it was to want to be able to look back and remember them all. There were too many variables, too many faces and distractions. Twenty years from now would he remember this one – Akthar?

Irwin leaned his hip against his desk and crossed his arms. "So, erm, do you specialize in any particular type of photography?"

"People, sir."

"Just people?"

"At present I'd rather not take pictures of grand architecture or pretty flowers or what have you. Just people, sir. They're far more interesting." Irwin imagined looking at the world from behind the lens of a camera. It must be utterly freeing, and he became rather envious at that thought.

"Are all people interesting?"

"Certainly. In their own way, they are."

"Intriguing," he replied. "Even the dullest of the dull?"

"Are you asking me if I think you're interesting, sir?" Akthar inquired in that semi-mocking way that Irwin had become accustomed to over the course of this term.

Irwin laughed, and he pushed his glasses up from where they'd slid. He still felt somewhat unbalanced; it'd been too long since his last cigarette. Feeling restless, he crossed over to the window and looked out at the indistinguishable grey.

Now that he thought about it, he had noticed that Akthar didn't take the piss out of him as much as the others did. At least he wasn't one to instigate anything. He experienced an unexpected rush of warmth towards the boy who stood across the room.

"No, I already know the answer to that one. If one had to choose between capturing my pale face or the Coliseum at dawn, I don't think it'd be much of a contest."

"Whatever you say, sir. I'll stick to my faces." Akthar smiled again, and Irwin suddenly felt compelled to tell him, You have beautiful eyes, but that was ridiculous, and he really was a sick fuck.

Yes, the teacher remembered the brilliant, the difficult, and the ones who were particularly handsome or tragic; never the ordinary, appropriately intelligent and civil boys – the bland, he thought irreverently. Even amongst the extraordinarily gifted there was that differentiation. And in which category did he belong? That was a question too easily answered.

Akthar shifted his weight and cleared his throat. "Well, sir –"

Irwin panicked a little. He didn't want him to go just yet. Returning to his desk and slipping on his coat, he asked, "Any plans for the weekend, then?" His hands were shaking, and where the fucks were his cigarettes? He was inclined to ask Akthar for one; he presumed most of the boys carried them, but that would be somewhat inappropriate.

"Oh, you know better than that, sir. I never waste any energy on activities that aren't purely academic in nature." He smiled, briefly. "I'm off, sir."

Irwin looked at that smooth, dark face and at those expressive eyes, and then he nodded shortly. "Right, erm, enjoy the weekend." He winced as soon he said it, but Akthar was walking to the door and didn't see him.

Irwin snapped his briefcase shut. He knew, disappointedly, that if he stayed on that's how it would be – a rotation of faces; from each year's mass of students would emerge only a handful who would be recorded to memory, like the stamp of the typewriter key, paper absorbing the neat stain of ink. It wasn't a teacher's job to _notice_ them all, but he'd wanted to try. He supposed teachers must be forever bumping into former pupils at the cinema or the grocery store. And how sad for the student who was recognized, but not remembered.

He stood for a moment in the empty classroom, then left.


End file.
